by M. Lizabeth Currain
First off, I must apologize for my absence, but sometimes, a girl has other plans. Last Tuesday, I saw Barack Obama kick John McCain’s ass in the election. It was very emotional and had me in tears that night and the next morning when I watched his speech again. Then I also watched Maya Angelou be interviewed and was in tears again. However, why do I feel like Harry was doing his best impression of Will Ferrell doing an impression of James Lipton? I think it was a very emotional time for the whole country and I just can’t believe the election is finally over and the outcome is in favor of all American’s and not those who don’t have humanity’s best interests in mind. I was glad to be in the company of like minded people–even if there were some awkward moments that ensued; perhaps at a later date I will share them with you, when we know each other a little bit better. Then over the weekend, I was reunited with my friend Sara from college. It was like old times; we hardly missed a beat. We attended two concerts–one being great. Fran Healy from Travis did a solo performance for the organization that I work for and it was awesome. The other, Creaky Boards, was good, but I think we both could have done without their obnoxious fan base the consisted of bad hair and stupid hats (see, also).
Before I go on, I must also say, that wordpress provides blog stats, where you are able to see how many people visit a day, how they are finding you, etc. The most traffic this blog gets is from people searching the interwebs for Jocelyn Wildenstein. The woman has not lost it. She is as popular as ever. It’s kind of amazing that she still has that sort of draw. In the past two days, 16 people have visited this humble blog via searching for Jocelyn. It’s mind boggling. Perhaps they are people who are given the name by their plastic surgeons and told to “Google” her, in order to persuade them to lay off the ol’ nip/tuck. She is something to marvel at–the idea that this woman has become part of our lexicon to describe or be a portrait of plastic surgery gone wrong, is an accomplishment all on it’s own. It doesn’t matter what this woman did or is doing, all people care about is how scary her face is and if it will get any worse.
On to Fiddlesticks. Fiddlesticks is this terrible restaurant that ate at in Greenwich Village a long while ago, but has remained with me for sometime. Let me tell you why. It was a spring afternoon, and I was with my pal Victor. We had been walking around for a while, and decided it was time to get lunch. We happened upon Fiddlesticks and decided, since they had lunch specials, we would just settle and eat there, instead of trekking onwards in search of perhaps, better food. Victor was wise and went with a turkey burger; I decided to be adventurous and order Penne ala vodka from an Irish Pub. UNWISE.
After lunch, we ventured on, walking the streets of SoHo, making fun of people, looking at things we couldn’t afford. I started getting an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, and as the minutes ticked on, that uncomfortable feeling began making it’s way through my lower GI. I had this bad feeling. I told Victor that we needed to find a bathroom. Unfortunately, we were in SoHo, and nary is a bathroom to be found, because those rich folk do not have bowels. The feeling kept getting worse. Plus, it was a very sunny and warm day, which was adding to my pain. Luckily, Victor, at the time lived in the West Village. He suggested that we go to his apartment and I could use his bathroom. I would have jumped at the chance if this hadn’t of been the first visit I was making to his apartment. What an awful way to introduce yourself into someone’s home space. But I had no choice, because this feeling was only getting worse, and one wrong step or relaxation of a muscle could have ended what has turned out to be, a hilarious friendship.
Imagine a speed walker–because that is what I looked like walking through SoHo to the West Village. Luckily, Victor was a good sport through this seemingly long walk, because he has a sensitive stomach and pretty much anything that he eats upsets his stomach. This walk was probably the longest of my life. People kept getting in my way and the sun kept getting hotter; it was terrible. When we finally got to his apartment, I had to walk up 5 flights of stairs. Five flights is bad enough when aren’t about to crap your pants, but it’s even worse when you are clenching every muscle that you have. Lets just say, when the moment finally came, it was something like this.
I know this is all very graphic and some might consider it an over share, but I am only sharing because I know everyone has been in this situation at least once. I am just trying to help take some of the shame out of it. I personally hate using public restrooms for such business, but sometimes you have no choice and from the times that I have been in Barnes and Noble in Union Square, I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Sometimes, it just happens. I worked with a woman that actually crapped her pants on the train. So, you know, it could always be worse.
Out of this horrible incident came the most useful term to describe such a situation: fiddlesticks. Now, whenever you eat something, and you get that feeling in your bowels, just say that you are having a fiddlesticks moment; if your friend is any sort of friend at all, they will totally help you find the nearest bathroom.